most holy of those days.
On the way to seminary, in my parents' suburban Maryland yard, we applied the same principles as Cesar and harvested some wonderful vegetables. For years I long dreamed of an urban garden/retreat house only to find it a reality 10 years later. Fr. Jim O'Donnell's ministry of presence in the blighted neighborhoods of Cleveland's East Side converted abandoned lots into verdant centers of community life. For a few years, we resumed small vegetable gardens until we moved to Tucson. After killing too many precious seedlings because we forgot to water them in the desert, we moved our garden inside. Shortly before we moved, it took up an entire wall.
We've worked on the flower gardens throughout the yard. Two or three times a week we are attending to the brush. And on my birthday, we decided to attempt a pumpkin and cucumber patch on the sunniest hill near the house. There are hopes of constructing tiers in this garden come the fall. But why wait? Life is so short. So we just plopped down some great potting soil, lovingly added the seedlings and offered them to the Lord. And now, for the first time in 11 years, we're actually growing pumpkins that are producing fruit!
I have no idea why I love pumpkins so much - but I do. I love their color. Their shape, Their variety. Their taste. Their flowers. Massive or small, perfectly shaped or weird,I can't get enough of 'em! This poem by Mary Oliver gets close to what I have always cherished in gardens whether they hold pumpkins or not.
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down -
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
After Memorial Day, when we could be almost certain there would be no frost, we surrounded our deck with lovely pots and planted tons of our favorite herbs. That was the start: sitting in the morning sun with the scent of fresh basil and mint is every bit as satisfying and sacred as genuflecting as the incense honors the icon. This Mary Oliver poem says much the same thing in her gracious manner.
Have I lived enough?
Have I loved enough?
Have I considered Right Action enough, have I come to any conclusion?
Have I experienced happiness with sufficient gratitude?
Have I endured loneliness with grace?
I say this, or perhaps I'm just thinking it.
Actually I probably think too much.
Then I step out into the garden,
where the gardener, who is said to be a simple man,
is tending his children, the roses.
Have I loved enough?
Have I considered Right Action enough, have I come to any conclusion?
Have I experienced happiness with sufficient gratitude?
Have I endured loneliness with grace?
I say this, or perhaps I'm just thinking it.
Actually I probably think too much.
Then I step out into the garden,
where the gardener, who is said to be a simple man,
is tending his children, the roses.
Tomorrow my prayer will be cutting back the always encroaching brush from the wetlands.
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